Gayle McCain

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Fighting tears, Peggy watched her husband leave
the house, as he had every night for the last month with what was left from
supper. He would come home a short time
later smelling of tobacco and the night air.
She didn’t know where he went, or what he did when he got there. And she was a little afraid to find out for
sure.

All she knew is the money she put in the
cookie jar kept
disappearing. She had expected to use
that money to buy presents at the mercantile. But found herself making Christmas presents for the
children instead.

Billy wanted to be a pirate. So she made an eye patch and a pirate’s hat from a large scrap of felt and embroidered a dragon on the front. Then she copied the dragon onto an old wooden
cigar box. Hours and hours of
painstakingly painting the dragon till she got it right. An old string of beads, a few tin foil coins,
and an ugly cameo broach turned the box into a perfect treasure chest.

Discipline kept her from crying as she cut
apart a stained pink dress that she had found abandoned in the attic, left by
the previous tenant of their small rented house. Located on the right side of the tracks,
Peggy tried very hard to keep up appearances determined that her family would
be seen as well-off, given her husband’s position as supervisor. It frustrated her that his paycheck
didn’t seem to be enough lately. She was
worried that his nightly outings would be seen sooner or later and the
neighbors would begin to talk. Small
towns were so gossipy.

A second cigar box, this one painted white,
would serve as a bed for Katie’s baby doll.
Sniffling Peggy created bedding for the doll bed. Sheets, pillows, a little blanket, and a
small bedspread. She was even able to
make a little dress and apron for the doll from a sleeve. She was
not a seamstress, so this gift was truly a labor of love, working secretly while
the children were at school.

By scrimping on the amount of meat she
bought and serving more stews and soups than normal, she had managed to buy a
small pouch of her husband’s favorite pipe tobacco.

Nevertheless, she felt inadequate. In his
old job, there had been plenty of money and they had all become accustomed to
lots of presents under the tree. The three
small presents were a stark reminder of the tough times of the depression and
of how her husband was apparently squandering their precious resources. But she loved him. And so said nothing.

Arrrrrrgh ! Avast ye Mateys

The children opened the presents that she
had carefully wrapped in pages of an old Life Magazine – snatched from a burn
pile before a neighbor noticed. Katie
loved her baby doll’s new bed. After
jumping up to kiss her mother, she wandered off to play in the corner, while Billy put on his eye patch, and went around
all day saying “aaargh.”

But there was no present under the tree for
her. She just looked at Floyd with quiet
sadness as he sat there smoking his pipe, thoughtfully. He was a man who had molded himself into a
tower of strength. In his young life he
had been a cowboy in Oklahoma, a gandy dancer laying track across the Illinois
prairie, and a professional boxer, hanging up his gloves after he won his third
purse, having proved himself to the rough Irishmen that worked alongside
him. He took this confidence into the
hard work of laying telephone lines across the countryside, unafraid of the
creatures that walked about on two legs.
But he didn’t know how to talk to his young wife. Didn’t understand that her strength came from
understanding why sacrifice was needed.

Hiding her emotions, she bustled about the
kitchen, fragrances of roast goose, stuffing, fresh bread and apple pie filling
the house. The adults ate quietly, while
the children chatted excitedly about their presents. While he was outside getting more wood for
the fire, Peggy packed a picnic basket with an extra pie for whoever it was
that her husband visited. Leaving the
basket on the table, she went to their room.

Floyd heard Peggy cry herself to
sleep. He knew she didn’t
understand. Someday he would
explain. It had been hard to watch his
brother and sisters starve as his mother took in boarders in an effort to keep
the family together. He believed his
little sister would have survived, if he’d been able to put enough food on the
table for her. But with his father gone,
he’d been the man of the family at ten.
And he just couldn’t do a man’s job, or get a man’s wage. Though he did try.

But he was a man now. He had tears in his eyes as he picked up
the basket his wife had made and when out into the blustery night, his
Christmas bonus tucked safely away in his shirt pocket.

A half a mile outside of town the lonely cabin
stood, on the wrong side of the tracks.
Christmas was here, and Sarah had nothing to put under the tree for her
children. She had put them to bed with
bread and milk, having nothing else to feed them.

The scarlet fever had nearly done Sarah’s husband
in. He was starting to get better, but
it had been touch and go there for a while.
Since he had taken sick, every night someone had secretly left a pot of
stew on their porch.

Some nights there were
a few coins next to it. Sarah didn’t
know who the angel was that watched over them, but was grateful that someone in
this town cared.

That night Floyd didn’t run out of sight after
he knocked on the door. He placed the
basket in her hands and pulled his Christmas bonus from his pocket.

“Ma’am,” he said quietly. “Your husband works for me. I’m glad that he’s getting better. But I can’t keep coming here. The Company is sending me and my family south
for the winter. It’s getting too cold to
do the work. There’s enough here that
you should be able to live for a couple of weeks, if you’re careful. Or take a train somewhere warmer for the
winter. Maybe go live with relatives or
something.” He fell silent, unsure what
to say next. Taking in Sarah’s
confusion, he continued.

“My wife, is a good woman; she fixed you up a nice
Christmas dinner. She made an extra pie
for you. And she doesn’t even know you.
I think she believes I’m having an affair.
But she did this anyway, because she just wants me to be happy. I didn’t tell her about your husband being
sick and all. She’s the kind of woman
who would have come to take care of him and you, and probably gotten sick
herself. So I have got to go fix the
mess I made. And explain the struggles
I’ve put her through. If you were my
sister I’d tell you to go home to your family.
The trains will be running tomorrow.
And I’ll have one of my men come give you all a ride to the station if
you’re going. Now I’ve got to get home
and fix it with her.”

He tipped his hat and turned to leave. She asked him to wait and ran to the pink cigar
box she kept her precious treasure in.
She scribbled a quick note and placed it in the box. Returning she asked him to please give it to his
wife as a Christmas gift. He tipped his hat once again, and walked off into the
night.

Taking off his overcoat, he silently poured
himself a shot of whiskey and lit his pipe.
Then he went into their bedroom and woke his wife.

“Tonight, I gave a family a chance to
survive,” he smiled grimly. “People are so proud. It’s so hard on men when they can’t
work. But it’s even harder for the women
and children; they’re so thin. And when
we try to help them, they get all prideful and won’t take what they so
desperately need,” he said quietly. “Honey,
I gave them my Christmas bonus. So they can
go home to her parents. I know it’s been
hard for you, with money so tight. And I thank you for not complaining, for we
have so much more than most.”

“She asked me to give you this,” he said
handing the cigar box to his wife.
Inside she found a delicate ladies handkerchief with tiny pink and white
embroidered flowers. And a simple note
that read: “Thank you, from the bottom
of our hearts. You saved us all. Sarah.”

“I know I should have told you. And I hope I didn’t ruin your Christmas, Peggy,”
he wiped a tear from her cheek. “I had
hoped to take you to your mother’s for the holidays. But I just couldn’t manage it. I’m sorry.
I love you.”

“I love you, too. Come to bed,” she said as she kissed him.

Some of the details are pure imagination. But the presents were real and my grandmother died never knowing that
those meager gifts were the most cherished things my mother and uncle ever
received.

Monday, March 18, 2013

She wasn't positive, but she thought she might be dreaming, or dead, meaning she'd crossed an exit point for her old life. The world was a softer place than it had been
the day before. The weather warmer, the
traffic noises sounded further away, and the creek she took her morning walk alongside of was uncharacteristically trash free. She noticed she was was more
relaxed than she had been in a long time. So she figured she must be dreaming, or in
that place people go when they’re between one life and another.

Her ‘old life’ had
been difficult, full of unrelenting mental work. While she had been given a top of the line
brain, she liked to mix it up a bit.
Splitting her time between solving problems, reading, writing, time spent with family, friends and patients, and
getting out into the wide world breathing in and breathing out - just being
without doing. The unrelenting nature of
her studies had gotten old. Grateful
that she was able to get the education at all due to her advancing age, Katie
none-the-less was noticing signs of inner rebellion growing at the irrelevance
of much of it. Sighing, she knew that
the minutia came with the territory. But
that didn’t mean she had to like every facet of it. Though she grudgingly admitted perhaps the
very contrast made her appreciate the good stuff even more.

Taking a break from her studies, she made
her way into the Antique Mall, feeling as though she had stepped into a different reality. She wondered if somehow the upscale flea market was a way station of sorts. Where people chose their next life by the
things they wanted around them. Katie believed that things are an outward expression of the inner beliefs and rules that one lived by. It wasn't always true to form, but she had found that those who chose their
surroundings deliberately tended to reflect their inner landscape surprisingly well.

She had always
loved wandering around looking at ‘shiny things’ that one found in the nicer shops, having grown tired of garage sales early in life. She enjoyed mentally trying on a potential new possession (or way of life) the way some women try on shoes. Mostly
she enjoyed the exercise in imagination.
But it had taken on a different quality this time. It was at once more vivid, and more detached.

Most of the things
surrounding her were well worn, and would make for an authentic setting if she
were a ‘staging expert’ like her friend who set up empty houses for
resale. She looked with curiosity at a booth crammed with the detritus from estate and garage sales. The vendor had gathered items that had a high
resale value, but had haphazardly mixed decorating styles. Katie would have grouped the things
differently. Placing the stainless steel
toaster, plug in percolator, the kitchen utensils with the black bake-o-lite
handles, and a white plastic canister set on the chrome and vinyl table. The tea kettle, fine tea cups, and lace tablecloth
would be arranged elegantly on the butler’s side table, and the Shaker chairs
would be hung on the wall above the plain wooden bench. But she liked to have things grouped by era. Not mixing Danish Modern with 1950's Chrome and Formica.

Some of these
styles her mother had had at one point or another in her life. All of them were attractive in some way, but
she didn’t want to duplicate her mother’s home. She wanted her own style,
wanted to reflect a softer, kinder life.

Moving on, she
found a booth where the vendor had chosen the items to blend together, reflecting a
style that Katie could only describe as pink, frilly, frivolous. She hadn't known that lace came in so many
shades of white, cream, and pink, much of it attempting to hide what was underneath. Dripping with ribbon, flounces and ruffles,
crystal chandeliers, the booth was 4000 cubic feet of total fluff. Lampshades covered with what looked like bits
of lace tablecloth and tulle. Ornate lamps, silk ivy garland wrapped in order to hide the ugliness beneath, shades
heavy with crystal beads, mountains of pillows, buckles, buttons and bows. It was rather overwhelming, all that fluttery
stuff. For a tidy sum Katie could have
the kind of room she might have liked for about fifteen minutes when she was
thirteen. There were a few things in the
booth she liked: a quilt here, an old
powder box that would hold jewelry, little things that would remind her of her
femininity without requiring the extraordinary steps to keep the dust at
bay.

Right next to
this wash of pink was an art-deco booth lined with movie posters, flapper
dresses, retro faux mink stoles, spike high heels, and a number of little retro women's hats. She slipped one of the hats on,
and stopped to admire herself. A single
glance in the mirror had her snatching it off, for she looked like her grandmother. When had she grown that old? The beret was definitely not her style, never had been, never would be, no matter how cute they looked on the model.

Ah but then she
saw a soft wool fedora, in black, she could not resist trying it on. Over the
shoulder of the elegant woman in the mirror she spied a patch of black, hiding
behind a hideous red, vinyl raincoat.
Pushing aside the offending bit of plastic she found a well, tailored, cashmere coat. Slipping it on, she
admired the way it hugged her curves. Paired with the fedora she would not be out of
place stepping out of a taxi at the Met.
All it needed was the right scarf.
Silk or soft knit, in red, dove grey, or cream depending on her mood. After a last look at herself, she reluctantly placed
the hat back on the wall hook, and the coat on its padded hanger.

She knew that
she would find these things again someday, probably in better shape. But now was the time to dream, not buy.

She fell in love
with a vase, clean elegant lines, rainbows showing through the cut crystal
edges. It was beautiful even without
flowers. A red and white quilt there, some
blue and white china, and a cut crystal sugar bowl. There were baskets and boxes. Dressers and damask drapes. Brass fireplace tools, a fender, and antique
brass andirons for a larger-than-life fireplace. There original oil paintings, and candlestick
lamps. Crystals and occasional
chairs. An old hutch made of mismatched
wood caught her eye, reminding her of one her grandfather had lovingly made
from an abandoned wardrobe.

She spent the
next several hours wandering about finding things she would enjoy if she were
to completely refurnish her home.

Stacks of soap
made in Scotland that smelling like ‘home’ spilled lazily down a display of
charming wooden boxes. English lavender dresser paper, and handmade cotton
quilts thrown over the foot of a bed caught her eye. Natural fibers, old time fragrances, and well-crafted
wooden furniture out shown the garish synthetic fabrics that so many merchants
were pawning off on the ignorant public.
An overstuffed wing back chair and ottoman were crammed into a corner
next to a fake fireplace, begging to be set free. A small wooden dresser buried under a
mountain of linens whispered of the lingerie that it had once held. A bent teakettle hung from a hook above the
coffee grinder that was missing the bowl.
And she smiled to herself for the one she owned looked better and still
worked. Katie had made coffee the old
fashioned way when the power went out – in the old metal pot hanging in the
fireplace while beef stew simmered in the Dutch oven and snow storms raged
outside.

The rows of old
glass medicine bottles in the next booth reminded her of her grandmother’s
vinegar cold remedy. Tasting of garlic
and something that kicked like a mule, she smiled as she remembered that it had
broken up every cough she had ever had. She moved on, nudging
a square bottle back into line.

And then she saw
the wooden humidor. Sanded till it felt like satin, someone had
lovingly crafted the maple piece, fitting it perfectly with an airtight insert
lined with a cork sheet. When she lifted
the lid the aroma of cigar tickled her nose, and she was washed with a wave of
homesickness. And she knew that this was
why she had come. None of the other ‘stuff’
mattered.

She knew He had
smoked the cigars that the humidor had held.
Wherever he had journeyed to make
his fortune – this time it was up to him to find her. She didn’t know what his name was. Or the
details of his life… but she had a sense that he was looking for her… and that
he had left the humidor for her to find, which meant he had been there. As she thought about it, she wondered if he
had been leaving little things that would remind her of home for years. That would wake her up enough to recognize
him when she saw him.

And then she
realized that perhaps it had not been him that had gone away, but her, because
she had needed to find out who she was independent of him, and whether she still
wanted to mingle her life with his. And over time, she had forgotten much of their
life together. And yet she had been
driven by a yearning to get back home.

Saturday, January 19, 2013

The stage
is almost set. Choices made for
costumes, lighting, and most of the cast.
Looks like an interesting weaving of storylines. The director walks around the stage one last time, and gets caught up in the story.

The
furniture is different. I've come to
expect that from a dream. We have less
than 24 hours. It is moving day. Or
perhaps it should be better said it is packing day. And in less than 24 hours
it will be moving day. Six a.m.? Nine a.m.?
I don’t remember now. But it is
time.

.

I am uncertain if we will be able to get everything out. I certainly don’t have boxes or even enough time to pack everything up. And yet I am calm. Moving through the house to see what
absolutely positively has to be taken, I have to walk around a stuffed bear with long eyelashes and a hint of femininity. This is not a baby bear. She's the kind that you can really cuddle up with on the couch.

There are stuffed velvet kittens and some plastic sharks in a goldfish bowl. A six
foot Labrador standing on his hind legs and a floppy eared mutt down on all
fours crowd in the hallway. Standing next to them is a funny big nosed
stuffed person, all head with itty-bitty arms and legs, about waist high. He is cute in a cartoon character sort of
way, and red. In fact there are two of
them, the one standing next to the dogs in the hallway, and another one tucked
almost out of sight behind the couch with her arm around a brown mare. A saddled black horse with white mane and tail is kneeling near the front door looking toward the couch. I don't remember owning any of these stuffed animals, have never seen them before.

Surfacing up out of the dream I remember that the props crew goes to a lot of work to find things that will fit into the set of my dream dramas. The details vary from dream to dream, just as the stories that weave together into the tapestry of each imagining are different.

It is almost
time to leave. I don't know how I know this. It feels as if I've been handed a script and the screenwriter has given it as part of the background. Regardless, somehow I have to
pack all these critters into boxes to take them with me. I don’t know where I am going. How I will get there. Or even if I am going alone. I just know it is time to go.

Wandering into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee I am stopped by a thick spider web strung across the walkway from the ceiling, though the creatures hanging in it aren't spiders at all. Striped like a tiger, orange and black they have twelve pairs of legs. And clearly they spin webs. They
don’t look poisonous, but one never knows with a new critter. Hanging in their web over the fridge, they have anchored a cable to the very center of the floor, making it hard
to move around the kitchen.

I
really don’t want them jumping down on me, I’m not fond of that. But their web is in the way. Heart pounding, I
disentangle the thread and one of them jumps onto the floor. I do not want it scurrying under the fridge or worse - running up my leg. I believe in 'catch and release' so I choose to trap it under a glass bowl from the counter. The other spidiger thing seems to be tangled in the web and is easily caught in another bowl. It must be really sick because the poor thing is just laying in the bowl on its back pretending to be dead.

Looking around the kitchen there's an air of unreality about the whole thing. There are two of
these tiger-spidery things. I return to the living room and began to realize that there a lot of the things are present in pairs. Two red head guys. Two dogs. Two chairs. Two canisters. There are even two identical doors on the fridge. It is bizarre. And none of it is alive. There are stuffed fabric
animals, plastic bugs, dolls, drawings, stick figures, sculptures. Two of this and two of that. Pairs of things. Everywhere.

Something very strange is going on.

Shaking my head, I go back
into the kitchen and carefully release my captives, apologizing to the spidigers even though I now realize they are made of plastic. I'm polite that way. And even though they're not real, something says I could have hurt them. Not wanting the props guys to be upset, I put the couple carefully back into their web and re-anchor the broken thread out of the
way on the window blinds.

I need more information and wander into
the bedroom. The bed is empty, covers
turned down, waiting. But lying on top of a very long dresser is a bear, quite
comfortably stretched on a white blanket folded for padding. He reminds me very much of a brown bear
puppet I had some years ago. Only this one is
human sized. He is waiting for someone. Me? I
don’t think so. But there is a quiet smile
and softness around his mouth as he dreams.

“Do stuffed
animals dream?” I ask out loud to no one in particular. And then an idea occurs to me.

I return to the living room and bring the feminine bear to the doorway of the bedroom. She leans against the door jam, waiting. If he wants her he’s going to have to ask her to join him. And together they can go out into the forest - or discover the softness of the feather pillows.

Not your ordinary dream

I finally realize that I am seeing the equivalent of an ark. In house form. Or perhaps more properly the stage of an ark… a
theatrical stage.

Perhaps of
a new world in which animals live together, harmoniously. They don’t eat each other, they don’t need to. That somehow they absorb their energy from
the world around them, without depleting it. They build
for beauty and usefulness. They explore
for the joy of exploring. Play and work
together. Using the strengths of each to
create their world. The small and frail are as useful as the big and strong.

This is a world with peaceful rules. And anyone
who decides to bring violence and war to this world will be removed, and sent back to school. Those bad behaviors are things we learned by watching too much television when we were young. This is graduate school.
When they grow up and let go of the violence they will be allowed to come back.

As I return to the living room I can see through the window that a man is sitting in a glider on the front porch, waiting for me.

I now realize that I will not be taking these things with me. That I was, am, supposed to leave them behind.

And then I
wake up. And remember.

So now the
real question is… is this the stuff that new worlds are made of? What if... this is how it works? We set a new stage, and then say "the Word" and
the action begins. What is the word that
a director uses?

Ah yes … “Act……” But I
don’t want to say it yet. I still have a character that needs to be cast, the actor hasn't said he will take the contract. But one way or another it
won’t be long.

Friday, August 10, 2012

It Begins in a Circle

Feet aching with cold, Amber waited outside the circle of
Standing Stones for the ceremony to begin. The pain in her toes a welcome
distraction from the fear of what was to come. Her disappointment over broken dreams
brought tears to her eyes once again. She had wrestled for some time with the
turn her life had taken before she finally sought counsel. Called simply “The
Merlin,” he was the person that everyone went to for healing, assistance, and
wisdom. Reluctant to add to his burdens, Amber had waited a long time
before talking to her elderly friend.

The Merlin had watched Amber grow up, had even come to think
of her as his granddaughter. He had spent many hours with the girl and her
grandmother. Yaya, whose name was also Amber, had come to live with her
daughter and granddaughter when her beloved husband had died. The elder Amber
had found life with her son-in-law difficult, and had begun spending more and
more time away from the cottage taking the little girl to the Forest. The
Merlin had met them on one of their first journeys into the wood and the elders
had developed a strong friendship.

The girl had not minded the deep conversations between the
two as she entertained herself playing with his dog, chasing butterflies and
picking flowers, occasionally stopping to help as the old ones gathered food
for their tables. The Merlin’s wife was an indifferent cook and had
relinquished that chore to him. For many years, he had wandered the Forest
gathering the ingredients for their next meal. This allowed him the solitude
that his place as the village shaman required. But by the time he had met the
elder Amber Yaya he had recognized that the solitude was not as necessary as it
had been in his youth, and was able to enjoy company.

He had discovered that as he talked with both Ambers, he was
more awake, more able to see that he was no different from them, not separate. There
were times when he felt as though he were looking out their eyes at an old man
sitting on a log. Whenever it occurred it was disorienting but eventually he
had grown used to it. Unable to explain the sensation of being in two places at
once without sounding crazy he had remained silent, though he often caught the
knowing look his old friend gave him as he explored it.

Yaya Amber had a way of being in the world that allowed her
to slip through life, connected to everything but rarely caught up in its
drama. The Merlin had watched as she did her best to teach the young girl how
to use that connectedness to be part of the village without getting dragged
down by disappointment and pain. But Yaya and The Merlin had to contend with
the influence of the other people in the girl’s life. People, whose belief that
life was hard and required sacrifices, were unable to experience the sweetness
of any of it as they scrambled to survive. An old man, he had spent many years
believing in the need for sacrifice and scarcity. He wondered if perhaps the
lessons that the elder Amber gave her granddaughter were often for his benefit.
She taught him to be softer, and when he focused on being connected he was able
to see out of the eyes of others.

When his old friend had died, he missed her terribly, for
they had spoken as equals and no one else in the village did so, even his wife.
The young girl’s father disapproved of things he could not understand and had
prevented the girl from spending time with the old man. The effect of the loss
of contact prevented him from continuing the girl’s education and over time she
forgot much of what her grandmother had taught. Even though he had seen the
changes, he had not been able to stop them. So he had watched her from a
distance as she grew to womanhood, offering what guidance and friendship she
would accept.

When the young woman had finally come to him to talk about
her future, he realized that he did not know what to say. Trying to remind her
of her grandmother’s wisdom had brought her only pain, and he had fallen back
to discussing practical options. His suggestions were met with resistance, for
many of them were aimed at helping to remind her of what she had learned at her
Yaya’s knee.

When Amber offered to participate in the midsummer’s eve
ceremony, he had resisted. As she persisted, he reluctantly acquiesced, praying
for an alternative. This was how he found himself staring out into the
dark with his assistant, Hawood, pounding out the ceremonial call.

Called by the drums, one by one the villagers joined the
circle outside the stones. Shuffling back and forth in the unseasonably
cold night they waited for the ceremony which would mark the beginning of a
summer that held little promise.

The booming of Hawood’s beat poured over Amber and dragged
her attention back to the ceremony in progress. Deep in pitch, it sent a
heartbeat rolling across the land, her own heart matching the pounding as it
thrummed against her body. It was the beginning of summer and yet the cold of
the dewy grass made her bare feet ache. Her throat tightened against the fear
of her part in the upcoming ceremony. She waited quietly, appearing to be just
one more villager standing outside the ring of stones, except for her bare
feet. Wearing only her best robe, and the triskell that had been her
grandmother’s, and her grandmother’s before her. A draft wafted up her
back, chilling her even further. She wrapped the fabric around her long legs in
a vain attempt to keep warm. Amber blinked the tears back trying to keep from
crying outright, her body pounding with the drum and aching from the cold. She
wanted an end to the pain, no longer sure whether it was the pain in her feet
or her heart, she just wanted it over.

Abruptly Amber felt a warm hand on her shoulder.
Glancing up, she saw that it belonged to the man she yearned for.
Byron smiled, teeth white in the darkness. Handing her the rope that held
a late spring lamb he squeezed her shoulder and moved away, leaving behind a warm
spot and his scent. Heart racing, she followed his progress with her eyes
noting that, though he went to stand in the circle of villagers, his betrothed
did not join him. One of the customs that the stranger had tried to change,
Shara believed that the nighttime ceremony was blasphemy, with or without the
sacrifice. The outsider had watched Byron join the circle and then returned to
the warmth of her bed. She would be up soon enough.

With drums pounding, Amber took a deep breath trying to calm
her fears. Fears that she thought she had put to rest when she’d made her
offer. Fears that she had discussed with The Merlin.

Young and Foolish

It had been a year of deprivation for the village of Stone
Circle, indeed for the entire land. The rains had not come, only cold and fog,
but never carrying enough moisture to allow the plants to flourish. The village
council had been meeting regularly, hoping to come up with something that would
ease their desperate straits.

Finally, someone had idly suggested that they follow ancient
traditions and perform a sacrifice. The council had agreed because no one
had a better idea. They all wanted to do something, even if there was
only a sliver of hope. Which was why Byron had brought a lamb to the
midsummer’s eve ceremony. He doubted that this ritual slaughter would be enough
to change the drought, but he hoped it would give a favorable start for his
upcoming marriage.

At dawn Byron would marry Shara, just hours after the
sacrificial ceremony. Tall, strong, and handsome, with a charming twinkle in
his eye, he had been leading hunting and trading parties for more than a
handful of years. His bride, tall and thin with waist-length blond hair,
had seen him on one of the trading missions and pursued him relentlessly. He
had allowed her pursuit, for Shara was a beautiful woman who flattered him.

One of the village’s best hunters, the young man was well
respected for his leadership skills. Always sharing his quarry with
the less fortunate, he had become particularly popular with those who looked to
him for support. After the village
chieftain had been slashed by a wild boar, Byron had assumed much of the work
of running the village.

Though they had known that Byron looked outside of the
village for a bride to stabilize tribal loyalties, no one in the village had
understood his choice. Nor could they understand why a simple treaty was not
enough to continue peacefully trading with the northern villages. Byron had refused
to explain his choice of mates. By all appearances, he had acquiesced to the
northern woman’s advances with little regard for how she would get along with
the residents of Stone Circle. Byron had yet to see the effect of Shara’s
arrogance and disrespect.

Amber, being young, had been able to convince herself that
he would change his mind. She believed he would eventually see how much she
could help him and would choose her instead. Even though they thought her odd,
she was far more respected than the sharp-tongued older woman from the north.
But plans for the wedding ceremony had proceeded without delay. Finally,
Amber had resigned herself to the idea that she would never be with the man she
had dreamed of for all those years. She knew that watching him build his life
with this stranger would be simply too much to bear, and thus she had finally
made her offer to The Merlin.

Hawood

Holding the rope in her hand, her mind went over her reasons
once again. Even knowing that what she was about to do was for the good
of the village she was afraid. She had felt disconnected from the community
since her Yaya had died, finally coming to believe that she had few hopes for a
better connection. And with Byron marrying the blond stranger she had no hopes
for the future. Depressed and lonely she had spent hours with The Merlin
discussing her options privately, not liking any of the alternatives that he
suggested. Finally, for the good of the village she knew what she had to do and
made her offer.

It wasn’t that Amber was unsuitable for marriage. Hawood had
made her an offer of marriage. He had always been fond of the young woman and
was willing to take her as his wife. Amber had turned him down because while she
enjoyed his company, she thought of him as a brother, and could not think of
him as a lover. She believed herself to be a passionate person, and his
peacefulness didn’t fit well with that. She didn’t think that he would be a
true match for her, because he lacked strength and vigor and she had always
held back to keep from overwhelming him. She wisely knew that she would
be too much for the quiet man. He needed a peaceful wife, one who would be
satisfied with his gentle ways.

For months Hawood had been sitting with the rest of the
villagers listening as they discussed options to ensure the survival of the
village. A bright young man, his rare but thoughtful comments did give them
alternatives. When he idly reminded them that in the ancient stories sacrifice
had been an accepted practice it had sparked a heated debate. Perhaps Hawood
had said it casually but The Merlin had already spent many a sleepless night
pondering that very question. After nearly half a year watching his
people suffer the shaman had come to the distasteful conclusion that perhaps
Hawood was right. Perhaps a blood sacrifice was called for. He had
discussed this with the village council which was how Byron came to offer the
lamb as a sacrifice.

Amber had her own reasons for her part of this ceremony and
knew the village’s reasons as well. She even believed they were doing the right
thing, but that didn’t relieve her rising tension. What if it didn’t work? What
if it did? Would she be glad that she had become involved in it? Would she even
care? Would anyone even notice her part in it all? Questions skittered through
her mind as she held the rope of the innocent lamb in the darkness. As midnight
approached, Hawood’s drumbeat rolled out into the dark, while The Merlin called
the magic.

Hawood had watched while the shaman prepared for the
ceremony. At The Merlin’s nod, the quiet man had begun pounding the drum,
slowly, steadily, a heartbeat rolling out across the chilled land. His friend
was going to walk the lamb to the center of the Stone Circle, holding it
tightly so that its innocent blood could be spilled. A sacrifice that would
release the energy needed to change the weather and bring rain. The quiet man
was certain the legends were correct, that some sort of sacrifice was needed.
Perhaps they only needed to release the idea that suffering was the way of
life. The young man wisely knew that sometimes change is easier to accomplish
when accompanied by some action, which is why he suggested the sacrifice in the
first place. Involve the body and the mind and the result is a change.

He personally preferred the idea of giving up a prized
possession, his favorite cup for example. But he believed that most of
the villagers were too selfish to be willing to do that. And he knew that
because this was an issue for the entire community if even one person wasn’t
emotionally moved in some fashion, the sacrifice could be in vain. He hoped the
spilling of the innocent lamb’s blood would so shock the villagers that they
would release their belief that this was an acceptable way to live. He also
prayed that Amber would see him for who he was and let go of her reluctance to
marry him. The young man loved her dearly, and wanted only to make her
happy.

It was a small village and they had known each other since
Amber had learned to walk. Several years older, Hawood had found the young girl
fascinating. Lighthearted as a butterfly, she had picked wildflowers and
berries, always willing to share with her friend. He had watched shyly as she
sat with her grandmother and The Merlin, and had wished that he could join
them. Though he didn’t really like Amber’s brother, he made friends with him as
a way of getting close to her, thinking that she would be impressed. She hadn’t
been. More than once he had distracted her brother while she slipped away,
mistakenly thinking that the two boys were best friends.

He had taken more than one beating from the girl’s brother
for interrupting as he picked on his little sister. But Hawood had done it
anyway. And he learned to fight, protecting her as necessary, though he had
always been a gentle soul. He had been the only one who knew that Amber was
learning skills normally reserved for the boys. She had been terribly
embarrassed the one time she knew he had seen her, which is why he had remained
silent the next time.

When her grandmother died, Hawood had been there to offer
friendship and what comfort his shyness would allow. He had listened to the
girl sobbing for hours. He had seen her withdraw from everything and everyone,
including him. He had been appalled at the way she cringed whenever she heard
her father’s voice. She had been so caught up in the drama at home that she had
no room for anyone in her life and had withdrawn further and further into the
silence of the Forest.

As Hawood came to manhood, he decided that she was someone
who he wanted to be able to spend more time with and had sought her out. But
her withdrawal had continued, and she simply did not have the desire to come
out of her self-imposed silence. Unsure what to do about her distance, Hawood
had finally gone to The Merlin.

What had begun as a request for advice turned into many long
discussions with the elder, and had eventually led to his position as The
Merlin’s assistant. Though he would have liked to be trained as a shaman, he
did not believe he had the spark that would make it possible. Enjoying The
Merlin’s company, he had decided that even if he could only be hands and helper
to the old man it was worth the effort. And that was how he came to be in
the Stone Circle.

As the drum pounded, the villagers gathered. Taking a
deep breath, Amber knew her part would come soon enough. Her aching feet would
be warm again, the ache in her heart eased or if they weren’t at least she
wouldn’t care. She hoped. Abruptly, the pounding of the drum was
silenced.

The Owl

The Merlin called into the stillness, a single note held
until he could hold it no longer. Amber moved forward, dropping the rope
holding the lamb as she stepped into the Stone Circle. Walking to the altar,
she bowed toward the shaman, honoring his wisdom, honoring his magic, hoping
that her sacrifice would accomplish what all the wishing in the world hadn’t --
bring rain.

“What are you doing?” Hawood hissed, surprised. “Go get the
lamb. What do you think you are you doing?” The words hung in the air, waiting
for an answer. An answer that Amber didn’t think she could give her childhood
friend.

“Silence, Hawood,” the shaman ordered. “Do not interfere.”
Amber could tell that her friend did not understand why she had come into the
circle alone. As it dawned on him what was happening, Hawood looked at her with
anguish. The Merlin gestured her toward the tallest stone from which hung a leather
strap. She stood in the moonlight, dew dampened robes wrapping around ankles
and feet numb with the cold. The last bit of warmth left her body as she leaned
against the tall standing stone. Reaching up, she slipped one hand after
another through the loops tied on the end of the binding. “She has consented.
Her reasons are her own.”

Hawood said in anguish “no no no no no.” Although he had
brought the idea to The Merlin’s attention he had merely been repeating an
ancient story. He had never wanted a blood sacrifice in the first place,
believing that even the life of a lamb was too much life to give up. It
had never occurred to him that this woman would agree to this. The villagers
began murmuring restlessly as it dawned on them what was about to happen.

“No! No, you can’t. Why, Amber? No. Why?”
Hawood cried, fire lighting his eyes. “Why are you doing this thing?” he
asked, stepping between her and the shaman. He had known that she felt unloved
and lonely, but he hadn’t known that her grief would cause her to go to this
extreme. Looking straight into her eyes he said, “Why? You are better than
this. You will find what you seek if you can just wait. Do not do this.”

“Hawood,” she began softly. “We have all prayed for an end
to the drought. We have all hoped that something would change, that some
sacrifice would be great enough to change the earth and sky and allow rain to
fall again. In the ancient stories, it was told that the drawing of blood
altered the very air the ancients breathed. I have tried to accept the changes
that will come to our village in the morning, and I find that I cannot. So I
must go. My blood will give our people the chance that they need. Please try to
understand.”

“She has consented, placed her hands in the binding by her
own choice. Do not interfere again,” the shaman spoke harshly to his assistant,
voice rough with emotion. “No one is forcing her. This is her choice. Now go.
Stand out of the way,” he said pointing to the far side of the Stone
Circle.

Walking to the altar, the shaman picked up the wand that
this ceremony called for. Covered with arcane symbols, the ash wand had been
passed down for many generations. Bound in leather, the handle had a
combination of horsehair and barn owl feathers hanging from it. The wood itself
brought knowledge of lost wisdom and ancient tradition, helping to focus and
use the power of the earth. The horse hair symbolizing freedom, movement
and travel, sometimes both birth and death. The owl feathers brought mystery
and more than a touch of prophecy. These elements gathered power, and focused
it through the ash wand.

Holding this powerful wand high above his head, The
Merlin prayed for something to stop the sacrifice. Knowing that he must
continue until the magic spoke to him; he turned away from the woman to take
his ceremonial knife from the altar, and heard a flapping sound behind him.
Whirling quickly he saw a barn owl land upon the woman’s suspended hands. The
bird peered down at his living perch and then paused to stare at the shaman in
the flickering firelight. The night fliers were said to be wise beyond
expectation and The Merlin was a believer. Turning its attention to his perch,
the predator bit cleanly through the leather strap binding the woman’s wrists.
Launching itself into the air, its claw tore open her hand. The
bird swooped over the altar, circled the Standing Stones once, and flew off
toward the east.

The turn of events brought eeriness to the entire
proceedings. Lowering her arms Amber looked at her hand as though it belonged
to someone else. While not a pumping wound, the gash left by the owl’s abrupt
departure was deep and her blood was flowing freely. She stood dumbly staring
at the red liquid that had run clear to her elbow by the time she lowered them.

The Merlin crossed the circle to grip Amber’s wound, blood
dripping between his fingers.. Small sparks flew into the air as each drop met
with the earth, made visible by the darkness. Amber’s eyes rose to stare
at the shaman, uncertain.

Relieved that he had received the omen that he needed to
change the course of the ceremony, he had only to understand and interpret. She
was to give her blood only, not her life. And whatever else was needed
would be made clear.

In the distance he heard the owl hoot three times as the
growing breeze caused the fire to flare. Smile growing, he dragged her to
the flickering fire.

“Blood for the Fire,” The Merlin said, dipping his wand into
the crimson liquid running down Amber’s arm. Flicking drops of red from the
feathers and horse hair of his wand, the fire flared. Flames dancing with
the sacrifice. Images moving, swirling, exploding into the darkness.
Images of Forest, a great expanse of water, and more Forest swarmed up through
the flames as if one were traveling over vast distances. The journey stopped as
a man came into view. Surprise showed on the gaunt, brooding features.
Blue eyes peered out of the flames, surrounded by dark hair and beard
beginning to grey.. He leaned forward out of the fire toward the
two of them. The stranger’s mouth forming words, but no sound was heard. The
man, the woman, and the shaman looked at each other for a brief moment. Eyes
meeting, power calling. Then the wind shifted and he disappeared in the
suddenly swirling flames.

“Blood for Water,” the shaman spoke grimly as he again wiped
Amber’s arm with his wand, dropping her life’s blood into the bowl on the
altar. Light swirled within its watery depths, sending out swirling, glowing
steam. Visions swam in the mist. Again an image the gaunt stranger swam into
view, this time seen from the back, as he stared into the fire beyond him. Surrounded
by a Forest reaching toward the sky, he pulled his sword and whirled around;
searching for the wraith he had seen in the flames. Again, the wind swirled,
blowing the vision away. The villagers could be heard shifting in their circle
outside the Standing Stones. Curious to see more of the vision, they were
annoyed that the stones blocked so much of their view.

“Blood for the Earth,” Merlin used a rigidly controlled
voice, full of power and potency; he shook drops of crimson from the wand onto
the dirt at the foot of the Standing Stone. Sparks rose into the air, twirling
and twisting, shimmering with power. The glittering flashes encircled the
Standing Stone from which the leather still hung, burning it to cinders, and
then streaked off toward the east. He could hear the villagers murmur in
surprise.

“Blood for the Air,” was the last offering. Dipping his wand
into her open wound one last time, he swung the wand toward the sky flinging
crimson drops everywhere. The droplets did not land but went streaking towards
the rapidly gathering clouds, glowing like fireflies. As they embedded
themselves in the dark surface of the clouds, lightning flashed from west to
east. For as long as it takes to breathe ten times, the lightning flashed. Over
and over. Always the same direction, west to east. When the sky finally stopped
flashing, the circle was shrouded in darkness once again, lit only by the
flickering bonfire. The wind picked up, and as the first of the cold raindrops
struck the villagers, the lightning flashed one last time, from west to east.

Fire hissing in the falling rain, the shaman faced Amber,
still gripping her wrist, blood dripping between them. Using the wooden end of
his wand for the first time, he traced the wound, watching as it stopped
bleeding and began to mend itself.

The villagers scurried toward their homes, grateful for the
rain, but thoroughly chilled.

The Stranger

The dark-haired stranger moved quietly through the Forest,
brooding. He had been searching for The Betrayer for a handful of seasons. The
trail, hot to cold and back again. His quest had taken him from one coast to
the other, from far north to the southern coastline, and still he could not
find Her. In truth the distance did not matter, for his home was where he
spread his Blood Blanket. He was a warrior from a clan of warriors and was used
to traveling. But his quest and the reason for it had made him old before his
time. Eyes that in his youth had sparkled with laughter and truth of purpose
were dull and lifeless. The brilliant blue had faded to the dull color of the
sea during a storm, although when he was full of menacing emotions they
darkened to the point of seeming black.

His unsettled spirit had seen too many of his brothers die
and had been unable to find peace because of it. He would only be free to
grieve fully and pursue a life once again when he found and stopped Her from
any further destruction, and thus he had willingly sacrificed the company of
others lest they distract him from his quest. His self-imposed exile meant that
while he might defend a village, he could not enjoy the peace that he brought
with his skills with a blade. Senses sharpened by a lifetime of battles and
enemy raids were now used to hunt for a single human predator.

As he traveled, Ian had exchanged his services for the
supplies that he needed, or whatever payment was offered, but only if the
service allowed him to continue to search essentially unhindered. He only
entered villages to obtain information and things that he could not gain from
the land, bypassing those without markets, for he found that his brooding
presence disrupted the community. He had avoided this particular village
because of the ceremony for midsummer’s eve, and a stranger in their midst
would cause talk. In his travels he had witnessed many ceremonies for the
passing of each season, and if the villagers decided that some innocent animal
should be sacrificed the drums had pounded out a funeral cadence. He had never
understood why they used the same cadence for sacrifice and funeral. It was as
if by pounding out the funeral cadence all would know of grief that had struck.
And he had seen enough of that to last ten lifetimes. So, when he heard the
drumbeat, he had known that some sort of sacrifice was planned, and he disliked
those rituals most of all.

Ian’s quest would only be delayed by visiting this
community. He knew that this was a place where a leader was chosen for skills
at trading, not in understanding the kind of men that prey on others. They
thought that hunting skills were warriors’ skills, and while the coordination
of multiple hunters required leadership skills, there were differences. Apparently
they thought that a sacrifice of some sort would appease the gods and life
would be simple and prosperous once again. He shook his head in disgust at
their ignorance.

As he stirred his fire, in it he saw a slip of a girl step
forward into a circle of Standing Stones. The vision, when added to the
pounding in the distance, caused dread to rise in his throat. Something far
more than the ordinary lamb was about to be sacrificed, whether through
ignorance or evil, and that was wrong. It was simply not to be allowed. The
warrior checked his weapons and ran toward the ritual heartbeat that was
booming across the land.

He slipped silently through the dark arriving at the circle
just as the owl had landed on the resigned girl’s bound hands, had watched the
bird free her and fly off. Curiosity kept him rooted at the edge of the
firelight as the shaman grabbed her wrist and dipped his wand into the blood
running down her arm. He was as astonished as the rest of the watchers as he
saw sparks fly into the air where her blood had fallen on the ground. But when
the shaman flicked some of her blood into the fire, he saw himself in the
flames. Ian stepped forward trying to see what was happening.

Some faint disturbance behind him caused his instincts to
take over and he drew his sword as he spun around. He knew that there was a
reason for his unease, but he couldn’t tell what it was. He heard the villagers
murmuring near him. He turned around to face the fire and the ceremony still
underway, sword drawn, and saw himself in the vision rising from the bowl of
water. He had not realized how gaunt he had become in the last year or how
grizzled. He had not yet passed into his third decade, but he looked much
older. Starvation and worry did that to a man.

As the wind blew away the sword-drawn image, the shaman had
looked up from the bowl and locked eyes with the flesh and blood warrior. The
old man had seen that the younger man’s eyes were nearly black, a color long
associated with pain and the spilling of blood. The warrior withdrew before his
instinct to fight when blood was spilled took control of him and he did
something that he might regret later. He gathered his things, smothering his
fire and slipping into the darkness away from the Stone Circle, only dimly
aware of his direction.

As the warrior moved silently through the falling rain when
most others would stumble and fall in the darkness. He smiled, knowing that
this skill had served him well over the years. He had been the one sent into
the darkness to discover the enemy’s weaknesses. He had a way of knowing who
was awake, where traps had been laid, and how to move through a Forest without
disturbing the undergrowth. Usually Ian dispatched the enemy sentinels without
a sound, thus ensuring the surprise of the attack of his warrior band. When he
became leader of his band, he had rigorously trained his group in silent
moving. Teaching the special way of listening to the tiny sounds that told him
someone was near. It had become an honor to be chosen to be one of his men for
they were the best.

They had been known as hard warriors, ignoring discomforts
and pain that stopped lesser men in their tracks. They trained over the
roughest of ground, and became accustomed to traveling long distances on little
sleep and meager food. Ian allowed his thoughts to wander to the women who were
drawn to his discipline and warrior’s body. He had enjoyed their company but
avoided seeking a mate, for he had known that warriors’ women were often alone
far more than they wanted to be. Plus there was something about the life that
made it difficult to be tender with a woman, and so most of the rest of his
band had made similar choices. Perhaps it was not the life, but the type of man
who was drawn to the life. They tended to be harder than most of their fellow
villagers, even as children. Certainly those warriors chosen to be members of
his band had been. They were the best.

He corrected himself. They had been the best. That is until
they were slaughtered in the dark, a little more than a handful of seasons
before. Ian’s eyes went black as he remembered the night of The Betrayer, and
he began to run through the night, no longer concerned about silence.

~

I hope you have enjoyed this taste of Sacrifice... to find out whether Amber runs again watch for it's release on iTunes as an Audio Book and on Amazon and Lulu as an eBook.

Forest of Mists - A Fantasy Journey of Magic and Mischief

Forest of Mists by Gayle McCain

Forest of Mists - A Novel of Magic, Mystery and Mischief

.....................Magic gone awry. Villagers missing. Jealousy and vengeance. A kingdom in uproar. Something had to be done. Nia was kind, good and loved the Forest. And she could do a little healing magic. However - she made a single mistake - she married her childhood friend, Michael. Their marriage was short as a childhood rival lured him away and vindictively cast a spell that damaged the magic protecting the ....................... Forest of Mists .................
Coming Soon

About Me

I'm embarking on a new adventure... I'm in Chiropractic College... AND I still write. Novels, children's books, self-help, short stories, and thousands of Tweets. I give unsolicited advice, hugs, and encouraging words to... well... everyone. Remember - like diamonds - it is our 'flaws' that make us so precious.